


The Synthezoid's New Clothes

by AnontheNullifier



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Evolution of their relationship, F/M, Fluff, Introspection, Scarlet Vision Secret Santa 2017, but told through Vision's clothing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-18 02:02:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13090083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnontheNullifier/pseuds/AnontheNullifier
Summary: Wanda contemplates the way Vision's clothing defines him as a person through each stage of their relationship.





	The Synthezoid's New Clothes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ATendrilOfScarlet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ATendrilOfScarlet/gifts).



> For Anya
> 
> This gift is to thank you for 1. being a wonderful person and 2. putting on the SV Secret Santa. Because you always host these events, you never get to participate, and so here is your gift. It's not quite the same as an anonymous person making it for you, but hopefully you don't mind that too much :D I know you only requested the baby carrier, but when you mentioned our holy trinity of Vision's clothing, it became a challenge to incorporate them all into one story. I hope I've succeeded at this and also that you don't die of Vision-clothing-induced overload. Merry Christmas! 
> 
> To everyone else, I sincerely hope you enjoy this!

Wanda had never given much thought to the development of style, at least nothing beyond a vague awareness of it in her own life. At some point in time she purposely sought out darker colors, tested out the way different types of necklaces fell and how certain metals felt on her fingers, listening to the sound they’d make clicking against a mug as she wrapped her hand around the ceramic curves. But then it became more or less unconscious, her body drawn to burgundys and scarlets, sometimes wearing army green for a touch of lightness, and black dresses were always far more enticing than pastels. But she had her entire life to form these habits, which is why it is so intriguing to watch this man - she thinks that’s the best term - who is barely a month old attempt a lifelong journey in a matter of weeks.

It started with snarky comments by Stark (unsurprisingly) about how Vision, a name she has only recently grown accustomed to using without hesitating on the syllables, is always ready for battle, his teal and red bodysuit donned no matter what he’s doing: reading, watching tv, training, cooking (the correct terminology here would be burning down the kitchen but he calls it cooking), or going for a walk. Wanda, much to her own seething annoyance, agrees with the gist of Stark’s comments, curious about the man’s lack of a wardrobe. She’s unsure if he actually has clothes or even if he needs them, his current attire materialized out of nowhere minutes after his creation. Yet she also recognizes the unease on his face when Stark, followed by the others, pester him, the confusion that pulls his serious mouth down whenever they point out his inhumanness by way of informing him he is doing something “weird,” and it causes a surprising tightening in her in chest, one that feels an awful lot like protectiveness. Why she needs to protect this god-like man, she hasn’t decided, but she has always allowed her emotions to guide her and so she forms a plan.

“Vision?” One of the certified “weird” things he often does is float in corners, golden cape billowing despite the lack of wind, a regalness to his contemplation that always makes her think of monks in quiet gardens.

He swivels towards her, a tiny, millisecond long uptick to his mouth that could be described as a smile. “Miss Maximoff. How are you?”

The _Miss Maximoff_ has been addressed before, a gentle yet clearly too subtle suggestion that most teammates use first names, but that, she determines, is an issue for another time. “I’m,” the answer is awful, Pietro’s loss a constant, heart numbing fog, but she tries to answer in the moment, a recommendation from Sam as a means to begin functioning in day to day life, “okay. You?”

“Oh,” he seems surprised every time she inquires about him, and she can’t help but wonder if anyone else ever participates in niceties with him. “I am quite well, thank you.”

As with most of their interactions, they fall into silence quickly, Vision rarely pushing her for more unless she indicates, usually through follow-up questions, that she is amenable to keep talking (this is not to be confused with his inability to recognize when it is and is not okay to phase into her room with questions). So Wanda breathes in, twisting her fingers together as she thinks about how to broach the topic with him. “I’ve heard Tony commenting on your clothes.” Vision is quite skilled at hiding his emotions (her teammates have a betting pool going on if he has emotions, but Wanda has felt his mind and she knows the answer) yet he is unable to hide the tensing of his shoulders or the slightly frantic twist of his electric blue irises. “You don’t have to change, if you like this,” she waves her hand, indicating the heroic apparel, “then wear it. But, um, if you,” this plan was ill-plotted, or so she realizes now as she fumbles for what exactly she wants to suggest, “want to test out some different styles, I’m happy to give you my opinion.”

The man stares at her, the intensity sparking the air between them with tiny puffs of heat, her own hands growing restless as she waits for a response. Then he frowns, head dipping as he studies his crimson hands, the corner of his golden cape pinched between his thumb and index finger. “I would,” he scrunches the material between the pads of his fingers before slowly tilting his chin up just enough to make eye contact with her once more, “like that, very much.”

“Good.”

“Where do you suggest we start?”

The already tenuous plan did not actually reach the point of his agreeing, leaving Wanda to improvise. “I say start with copying from other people, try something different each day until you find what you like.” Her own style grew from playing dress-up with her mother’s clothes, playing with her hats and belts, finding that she favored boots over heels and dresses over skirts, so who’s to say it won’t work for Vision.

Another upturn of his lips settles the idea, an appreciative nod confirming he has understood her suggestion, and then, apparently deeming the conversation done, he phases away, a “Have a good day, Miss Maximoff,” hovering in the air where his body once did.

The next week is unusual, entertaining, but also a bit painful to watch. Vision starts with Stark, walking into breakfast on his first day of experimenting wearing an AC/DC t-shirt and jeans. Wanda instantly knows it is not right for him and suspects he can feel it as well, his steps not nearly as confident as usual, his shoulders turning in just enough to give him a general air of self-consciousness. The wrongness of his clothing is cemented when Rhodes looks the man up and down, “Did you raid Tony’s closet?

Day two, at the guidance of Wanda, he tests out Steve’s more neutral look, a gray short-sleeved t-shirt with khaki pants and a leather jacket. This goes over slightly better, no snide comments from any teammates, and Wanda has to admit, only to herself, that the clothes do nicely accentuate Vision’s body, though she’s not sure why that was the first thing she noticed. But Vision seems unimpressed. So next he tries Sam, an even more relaxed version of Steve, yet not quite the I-don’t-care-what-anyone-says level of Tony. Wanda immediately shakes her head no, an action met with Vision’s concurring nod.

It’s on the fourth night, as he’s sitting on the couch in a suit reminiscent of the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents that work in the control room (a look that is almost right but just a touch too formal), that she first realizes she never considered if he might actually have a notion of what he likes. They are all spread out on the couches, Nat having the honor of selecting the movie for the evening, telling everyone it was time they watched some classics, not Steve-level classics, but close. Cary Grant - well John Robbie in the movie - is eating breakfast, wearing a baby blue sweater over a multi-colored turtleneck, and she can feel Vision shift next to her, lean forward enough to scrutinize  the screen with squinted eyes. Sam patrols talking during movies (despite being one of the bigger culprits) but Wanda decides to risk it. “You okay?”

Vision glances over at her, a rare enthusiasm twirling his irises as he says, “I like his sweater.”

“Try it out tomorrow,” she studies the man on the screen in an attempt to visualize the outfit on Vision, consider how baby blue would go with his skin tone, “but maybe a darker color.”

When he strolls into breakfast the next day, stride finally returning to its usual confidence, Wanda chokes on her tea. The gray trousers combined with the navy sweater are enthralling. How they ever thought anything else would match his personality, embody him as a person, is beyond her, because this is most definitely _him_. Wanda swallows her tea, coupling her thumbs-up with a congratulatory smile.

From then on Vision has two distinct looks, the sweater and slacks combination and the heroic body suit and cape, both representative of him as a person, but different enough to highlight he is more than just an Avenger. It is also enough to silence any snarky dissention from Stark, and has a fascinating effect on Vision. The otherworldliness is still there, always brimming below the surface, evident whenever his head pops through the wall of her room or he frightens Rhodes by materializing just behind him in the kitchen, or when he shifts from his sweater to his uniform in front of everyone as if this is the most common mode of getting dressed, yet it is tempered. Which, now that Wanda considers it, as she stares across the Monopoly board at the casual crossing of his legs, perhaps it is not Vision who has changed but her own perception of him, a thought that is equal parts curiosity and guilt.  “Wanda?”

The clothing is not the only change, a closeness forming between them, one she never anticipated and yet finds her heart racing whenever he walks into a room, or when they spar in training and she bests him, resulting in an encouragingly proud smile that always flips her stomach. Mostly, however, she notices it in moments like these, her first name comfortable on his tongue, a friendly question rotating with the gears of his eyes that transports her several hours before when her cheek was pressed to the soft cashmere of his sweater as they read on the couch. “Yeah, Vizh?”

“It is your turn,” she starts to answer, but is silenced by a deceptively innocent smirk on his face, “though you are about to enter my corridor of doom.”

Laughter has been difficult since Pietro’s death and yet she finds herself giddy at so many of the dry, carefully chosen words from the man across from her. “Hey, you can’t steal my term.” The corridor of doom, as Wanda calls it in moments of blissful victory, is when one person owns every single property in one stretch of the board, which, unfortunately, he has managed to do quite well in this game.

“Oh, my apologies.”

“You should be sorry.”

Months ago he’d have sulked, a minuscule hunch of his shoulders that only she would have noticed, but currently his lips are cocked into a disarmingly confident arc. “I will henceforth endeavor to desist from utilizing your trademarked terminology.”

“Good.” Wanda blames her next comment on how relaxed she is in this moment, the guard she so carefully constructs around everyone else falling over anytime he so much as breathes near her. “You know Vizh,” her eyes roam along the crisp lines of the collar of the button-up shirt he always wears under the silken threads of his navy sweater, and then down to her ripped leggings and tattered hem, “you always make me feel so underdressed.”

His skin bunches around the Mindstone, thoughts careening around her statement, small flares of disquieted concern spiking from his mind, palpable to her even without direct connection of her powers. “I have never considered you underdressed.”  

The genuineness of his confession mixing with an odd, unreadable dilation of his pupil causes her to falter and wish she could take it back. “It’s not a bad thing, just,” the explanation is far weaker than she anticipated, the last of her reasoning coming out in what she hopes is a nonchalant, even tone, “an observation.”

Wanda realizes she should have anticipated what her comment would do, his traditional dressy attire remaining for meetings, press junkets, their weekly coffee adventure (Nat calls it a date, a term Wanda denies if only because she can’t stand the slightly patronizing way the spy winks whenever she sees them together), and any outings where the public or paparazzi might appear, but on lazy days in the compound, the sweater becomes a navy thermal. The dress pants stay, something Wanda is quite thankful for as she finds herself admiring the impeccable fit of his pants more and more, but the thermal is less formal, still a touch refined, but she no longer feels out of place cooking next to him or curled up on the couch reading.

He is actually wearing this thermal the first time she kisses him, what starts as a peck to his cheek slowly moving to his lips, the wide-eyed, ensnared expression on his face encouraging her to steal another and then another, stopping only when Natasha coughs from the corner of the common space. But it is when he is wearing his usual sweater that she first learns how to phase away his clothing, taking control of the Mindstone in a moment of passion, hands running along the lines of vibranium that flow with his muscles, discovering that a brush of her fingertip to the points where his skin fuses with the metal leads to a shiver and a hurried, uncontrolled intake of air. Where discovering the wardrobe that personified him was enjoyable, Wanda finds herself far more intoxicated by the process of removing each layer of his carefully constructed appearance, drowning herself in the way his body responds to her own, the feel of his skin to hers, much different than the cashmere or the knitted thermal, a fascinating and inexplicably breathtaking experience to feel the contrast between the cool vibranium and his warm skin.

Once he comes to accept her adoration of his body as genuine, internalizing it to mean he is not hideously inhuman, understanding that she desires him exactly the way he was made, his clothing starts to morph. Short sleeves in the summer that highlight his arms, in the fall sometimes he forgoes the collared shirt under his sweater, allowing the branches of vibranium to be on full display, he even, after her hundredth (give or take) time admiring his calves, wore shorts for one of their vacations. This doesn’t mean he is completely comfortable in all things, an adorable prudishness instilled in him over certain articles of clothing.

“Wanda this is truly ridiculous.”

The statement is incredibly true but Wanda refuses to give in, body bouncing on the mattress as she waits for him to finally leave the bathroom. “That’s what you said about the speedo, Vizh, and you’ve come around to that.”

This is a lie, even on their honeymoon, when they had the entire island to themselves, it still took an unnecessary amount of encouragement for him to walk on the beach, tiny teal swimsuit providing barely any coverage of his glorious body. “I most certainly have not come around to the speedo.”

Wanda rolls her eyes, fingers clasped and cheeks starting to hurt from the broad smile on her face, “Come on, you know it won’t be on for long.”  A sigh resonates in the bathroom, bouncing off the walls until it has enough force to exit the tiny crack under the door and reach Wanda’s ears. Slowly, reluctantly, and painfully he opens the door, immediately covering his face with his hands, as if that will be useful in stopping her gaze. “Oh yeah, that,” the pain in her cheeks intensifies as her lips rise to their apex, eyes taking in the tiny red shorts lined with white fur and the matching hat on his head, “is absolutely ridiculous.” To be fair, he did lose a bet, foolishly believing she couldn’t beat Sam in a pirozhki eating contest, and, in entering said bet he did agree, again, foolishly, to willingly wear whatever holiday attire she chose. Even though Christmas is not her traditional choice, she felt a bit less sacrilegious ordering a sexy Santa outfit than a sexy dreidel. Despite his discomfort, Wanda is not one to allow a victory to go to waste. “You can take it off once you give me your best Santa impression.”

His hands leave his face, eyes widened in abject horror at the suggestion, a slight shake of his head preceding his slow steps back into the bathroom, “That was neither explicitly nor implicitly stated in the deal.”

“Maximoff,” the use of his newest nickname briefly breaks through his unease, mouth lifting into a small smile as he bends his thumb to play with the vibranium wedding ring adorning his finger. “You know you’re ridiculously sexy, right?” Wanda pushes her palms into the fluffy duvet beneath her, casually approaching him with a purposefully exaggerated sashay.

“So you insist.”

When Wanda reaches him she places her hand just above the shorts and then walks her fingers up his stomach at an achingly leisurely pace, her eyes never leaving his own, tracking his defiance as it wilts, grinning the second his eyelids close as she reaches his sternum. “You are right about one thing.”

The response is an unarticulated “Hmm?”

“This,” she reaches up to snatch the hat from his head, tossing it to the side, “is not the best look for you.”

 

As the years progress, there is a slow, almost imperceptible evolution of his (and her, if she’s being honest) clothing, one that she had been warned about from Clint. The week before their wedding he had pulled her aside, explained how she should relish the honeymoon phase of a relationship but also remember that it never lasts, that at some point the excitement and giddiness even out. Even though she wholeheartedly denied his assertion, it did turn out to be true, though it does not equate to the myth that the romance is lost, simply that in growing closer and far more comfortable with each other, things shift, what once seemed the pinnacle of romanticism gives way to an understanding that some nights Vision willingly doing the dishes after an Avengers’ party is just as sensual as him surprising her with a room full of candles. Both, in their own way, are clear signs of his continued love. This translates to their clothing as well, particularly once they buy their own house. When living at the compound, _casual_ meant still being fully dressed and presentable, now every morning Wanda has the pleasure of watching Vision walk around in sweatpants, shirt sometimes manifesting depending on his mood. He even ditches the loafers at the door, phasing away the shoes so he can traverse the house in argyle socks, occasionally in the summer he even goes barefoot. One day, though she has never been able to convince the rest of the team of this, he even wore jeans and a t-shirt, but he quickly determined that might be too casual, even for him. Yet none of these changes fully encompass this new portion of their lives as much as her current situation.

Wanda had been assigned an undercover mission, probing the newly rumored formation of a Hydra-esque underground corporation in Sokovia. It was supposed to be a two week ordeal, but she and Bucky managed to not only identify the threat but neutralize it in just over a week. Typically she would inform Vision of the change in plans, but Bucky, in his own recently realized streak of romanticism in his pursuit of Natasha, convinced her that it would be quite charming to surprise her husband.

With the utmost care, Wanda had used her powers to silently open the door, ducking out of any potential sightlines just in case he was near the front of the house. There was no _Hello_ or _Wanda?_ , no surprise phasing of his body out of the floor, Mindstone charged and ready, and so Wanda gingerly reaches out with her powers, just enough to assess roughly where he is located but never actually touching him since he is always attuned to her presence in his thoughts. Based on her intel, he seems to be in the living room, which is thankfully sectioned off by a wall.

Wanda enters the house, shutting the door just as quietly as she opened it, and then stops, head tilting to the side as she listens to the sultry, smooth flow of saxophones and trumpets. She utilizes the coverage of the music, slipping off her shoes before walking any further, and creeps along the wall, leaning forward enough to peer around the corner, unable to stop her smile as she takes in Vision’s bare feet propped up on the armrest of the couch and the shine of vibranium from his head on the other armrest.

Channeling the advice of Natasha, Wanda crouches low, pausing every three steps to reassess her target, happily noting he has not moved at all since she spotted him. After a painstaking crawl through the room, she finally reaches the couch, breathing in to calm herself and then standing on the exhale with an enthusiastic, “Maximoff!”

Vision tenses, pupils dilating as the gears in his eyes spin at a breakneck pace before he slowly blinks, lowering the book in his hands to lay on his chest. “Wanda?” Her name is a tad shaky coming from his lips, the aftereffects of her successful surprise clear and satisfying, but that all fades once she actually looks at him.

“I knew it!” One of their wedding gifts, years ago, had been a matching set of plush, heavenly soft embroidered ( _Mr. and Mrs. Maximoff_ , respectively) bathrobes. Vision’s response had been polite yet dismissive, pointing out that he had explained to Tony the uselessness of buying him clothing since he could simply manipulate his molecules to wear anything, but he still, to humor both her and Tony, tried it on. He would even join her in wearing it whenever she decided to have a day of relaxation, an action she always assumed was his way of appeasing her, but now she knows the truth. “All this time, you actually do enjoy wearing it.”

Vision’s eyes have not calmed, an unnecessary swallow conveying his discomfort at being caught, his entire body, minus his head and bare legs, completely devoured by the fluffy white robe. If ever a sight could be considered the epitome of absolute comfort, it would be this. “I believe," slowly he sits up, irises settling into their usual soothing rhythm, "I always agreed with your assessment that they are,” his fingers run appreciatively along the edge of the robe, “quite luxurious.”

“They are.” Her husband starts to stand, probably with the intent to greet her, but Wanda holds out a hand, “No, stay there, I’ll be right back.” His acquiescence to her command leads to one of her favorite memories, an evening alternating between lounging and slow dancing barefoot in robes far too expensive to think about, drinking wine, and listening to jazz.

 

For the most part, Vision's wardrobe has since remained fairly static, some small changes are occasionally introduced based on the fashion of the times such as his (thankfully) brief phase of sweater vests or the summer he almost exclusively wore polos, khaki shorts, and boat shoes. But his preferred clothing choice never strayed too much, still favoring his sweater and slacks combination, the veritable essence of his being. Recently, however, he has started to accessorize, well, Wanda smiles as she watches him, just one accessory and it is not a fashionable option. It was about six months into being parents that they discovered Tommy’s love of being strapped into the baby carrier, but, much to Vision’s surprise and Wanda’s mild heartbreak, Tommy only calmed down if he was snuggled against Vision. Which is how they’ve ended up in this moment,  Vision’s sweater obscured by heather-colored straps and buckles wrapped around his body, his right hand placed firmly under Tommy’s bottom, and his left hand alternating between gesticulating his side of the conversation and soothingly running along the sprouts of white hair sticking up from their son’s head.

Wanda shifts slightly in her seat, transferring Billy from her left to her right arm, eyes never leaving her husband and son. The plan for the twins’ first birthday was to allow the boys to be passed around, spend time with their crazy aunts and uncles, even Tony, though the animatronic Iron Man toy he gifted the boys is a bit unsettling. But plans rarely ever work, particularly with children, and even more so when Tony is involved.

Five minutes earlier, Tommy, who recently learned how to walk with the assistance of a box that was waiting to be recycled, had journeyed over to the bright, glittery presents and tempting puffs of tissue paper. The motion-sensored Iron Man doll recognized the movement, Tony’s voice coming from the doll with an _I am Iron Man!_ as the toy raised its hand and shot a plastic rocket into the living room with a believable booming sound effect. Tommy, quite rationally, freaked out, falling to the ground with fat tears rolling down his little cheeks. Tony and then Steve and then Natasha, followed by an overconfident combination of Clint, Scott, and a giraffe rattle tried to calm the boy down, but the only real solution was clear. Vision met Wanda’s eyes, a resolute nod confirming the plan before he phased upstairs, falling back through the ceiling seconds later with the baby carrier in hand. Frantically he worked through the process, looping the straps around his body and fastening the ridiculous amounts of  buckles, and then slid Tommy into the harness, easing him gently forward to lay against his chest. The crying ceased in seconds, replaced by a contented babble.

Wanda smiles as she watches Vision break from his conversation with Pepper, Tommy rousing in anger at something, and bend his neck just enough to place a soothing kiss to the top of their son’s head, instantly quieting him. It is a big difference from where Vision was a month into his life, but Wanda has loved him through it all, cherished the tiny changes and the evolution of his being, but she knows, even with all of the memories and all the outfits, nothing compares to who he is now. He’s still a hero, never changing his uniform or the godly billowing cape, but he is also just a man, one of indescribable power and compassion, standing near the refreshment table in black slacks and a questionable mint-colored sweater with navy chevrons, with their son strapped to his chest.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Holidays everyone!


End file.
